“Smugglers,” Alberich replied. “Of vile things in—of information out.” He raised a weary eyebrow. “One leak less, there is, and the jail, full.” He still looked troubled, though, and Talamir knew why; it wasn’t that he hadn’t done well, it was just that he was concerned that there were informants who were eluding him. Anyone that Alberich caught down in the slums of Haven would not likely be sending the most sensitive information. Not that there was any sign that there was such a leak, but they always had to assume that one could exist.

Finding those leaks was Talamir’s job; Alberich could not function in Court circles, while Talamir could, cultivating a mild-mannered and quiet demeanor, saying little and all of that agreeable and sympathetic. He came across as unworldly and just a bit absent-minded. People confided in him a great deal, and generally had no idea how much they had told him.

Nevertheless, there was no doubt in Talamir’s mind that if saboteurs and couriers were to materialize in Haven, they would be living and operating in the area that Alberich was responsible for. Elsewhere, people were curious about their neighbors. In effect, each little quarter outside of the most impoverished areas was a kind of village, where everyone knew everyone else and wanted to know what they were up to. Not so around Exile’s Gate. The inhabitants were utterly indifferent to the doings around them, and with good reason. Those who were too curious often ended up on—at best—the wrong end of a beating.

“Plenty of damage can come out of Exile’s Gate,” Talamir assured him. “Anything you do to stop it from traveling to our enemies is another arrow in our quiver.”

Alberich sighed. “It seems like not enough.” But he leaned back and accepted a refill and an apple, which he peeled with a frown of concentration, getting the entire peel off in one piece. The knife made a crisp sound as it passed through the flesh.

“If you were a maid, you’d be tossing that over your shoulder, and looking for the letters of your husband’s name in it,” Dethor observed, as Alberich carefully set the long curl of peel aside.

Alberich regarded him somberly. “Is that so? In Karse, such are for the children fried and dipped in honey. I have told you, divination a thing of witchcraft is. No Karsite maiden would dare such a thing, for the fear of the Fires.”

Once again, Talamir was struck by how very different the Karsites were. A Valdemaran wouldn’t think twice about tossing an apple peel, reading the tea leaves, wishing in a fountain. And that was the essence of the problem that faced the agents sent into Karse.

“Have you eaten?” Talamir asked, instead of commenting. “More than just that apple, I mean.”